


Learn to act with Titus Andromedon!

by bluemoonrune



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV), Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 13:07:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17684039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluemoonrune/pseuds/bluemoonrune
Summary: Raymond Holt goes to acting class.





	Learn to act with Titus Andromedon!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Serenade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serenade/gifts).



This was entirely Kevin’s fault, Raymond thought as he surveyed the four strangers in the community hall before him. All looked desperate, like this was their last thin ray of hope. All of them looked downtrodden by a world that had kept refusing to give them a shot. And all of them looked like they were regretting their choices after seeing the glitter-covered banner (“EXPRESS YOUR TRUE SELF WITH TITUS ANDROMEDON!!!”) that stretched from wall to wall.

It was eleven minutes past ten on a Monday morning, and Raymond had skipped his fencing class for this. He frowned at his watch, at the banner, and at the door, which burst open. In sashayed — there was no other word for it — a man wearing a skintight sequined outfit and a peacock feather boa, followed by a beaming young redheaded woman doing jazz hands.

“Greetings, and welcome to my one-week acting seminar!” the man declaimed, almost regally. Behind him, the woman started to do the raise-the-roof gesture. “My name is Titus Andromedon, acclaimed director of _Beaudy An' The Beest_ , star and creator of _Kimono You Didn’t: Murasaki’s Journey_ , Dianne Warwick’s beloved proté-gay, and one-time heterosexual corpse on _America’s Most Wanted_.” He bowed, and the woman applauded vigorously. “Also, I have an upcoming off-Broadway version of _The Lion King_ in the works, as soon as I sort out a few minor legal issues.”

He paused, and turned to the woman. “Kimbelina, how long has it been now?" 

The woman — _Kimbelina? —_ checked her watch. “You still have one hour and forty-seven minutes of teaching time, Titus.” 

Titus’ smile became fixed. For several moments, nobody said anything. The redheaded woman had stopped making any kind of gesture.

Raymond cleared his throat, and Titus’ head swivelled to look at him. “Yes!” he said, looking like a schoolchild who’d forgotten his homework and was clutching at any possible straw. “I mean, excuse me, sir, please tell me about who you are and why you’re here. Tell me everything, in a nice long storytelling way. And then all you others do the same.” He waved grandiosely at the four other attendees. “This is part of learning to act.”

“I’m a police captain from Brooklyn’s 99th precinct, and I’m here to learn how to perform a monologue.” Perhaps that was a little verbose, but Raymond supposed he would have to be more talkative than usual in a class like this.

“A monologue?” Titus came closer, an exaggerated look of fascination on his face. “But tell us more. Who are you performing it for? And where? And what kind of monologue? And what will you be wearing? It’s very important to explain all these questions before we jump into the actual teaching activities I definitely have planned.”

Raymond frowned. This was already turning out to be almost as torturous as Kevin’s ongoing monologue onslaught.

* * *

The onslaught had begun in October, but Raymond hadn’t recognised it as such at the time. “I’ve been asked to take over for a course on classical monologues next semester,” Kevin had mentioned over steak one evening. “It might be a little more modern than I’m used to, though, so I’m strongly debating it.”

“Oh?” Raymond had said.

“For some reason, they won’t give up on the idea of including Shakespeare in the curriculum. They want to cross-list the class with _Renaissance Studies_ , of all things.” He shuddered.

“Ah,” Raymond had said.

Later, in mid-November, Kevin had made a passing mention over breakfast to a monologue in _Twelfth Night_ that was “rather lyrical, actually”. Raymond had raised a slight eyebrow and made no comment, but he’d filed it away. Kevin never brought work home, so if he was doing it now, he must have an ulterior motive. It was up to Raymond and his many years of detecting experience to figure out what it was.

And then, during a mid-afternoon coffee on Boxing Day, the onslaught had reached a crescendo. Kevin had put aside his book of Shakespearean criticism, taken a sip of coffee, and remarked: “You know, Raymond, I’m coming to be fond of some of these soliloquies.”

“Is that so,” Raymond had said, keeping his eyes steadily trained forward.

“There’s something quite pleasant about reading some simple declamations of love for once. You know, rather than just the _true_ classical emotions of anguish, betrayal, vengeance…”

And there it was: an outright demand for a romantic monologue. Kevin hadn’t mentioned Valentine’s Day specifically, but since their anniversary wasn’t until the summer, Raymond deduced that this was the only logical possibility.

* * * 

Even after figuring out what Kevin wanted from him, Raymond had kept putting off the actual _romantic monologue_ part, on some level hoping that he’d have to go back into witness protection before Valentine’s Day and could avoid the matter entirely. But the weeks had crept on with no mob threats, and finally, in late January, he’d thrown caution to the wind.

“Santiago, I have a rather personal favour to ask of you.” Santiago had saluted and had stood ramrod-straight, almost vibrating with the desire to please. If she’d been Cheddar, her tail would have been wagging full-tilt. “I need to find a place where I can hone my acting skills. In secret. For no particular reason.”

“Oh! You should take classes with Titus Andromedon.”

“Titus Andromedon? Not — Titus Andronicus?”

“No, Titus Andromedon, the director. My friend Kylie went to see his off-Broadway production recently, and she said it was _amazing_. It was an experimental post-modern interactive take on _Beauty and the Beast_. And I know he does classes because his flyers are _everywhere_ on my beat. They’re very badly spelled but he’s supposed to be a genius.” She beamed.

_Experimental_ , _post-modern_ , and _interactive_ individually sounded appalling to Raymond; together, they sounded like a grotesque horror show. But February was approaching, and he was no nearer to figuring out his monologue. Titus Andromedon, whoever he was, was likely to be his only option.

* * *

Titus Andromedon might be his only option, but Raymond was starting to feel disquieted at the amount of actual acting tuition he was receiving in return for his nonrefundable $1,000 payment. After Titus had quizzed everyone in the room for as long as possible in Monday’s session, they had spent the rest of the two-hour class watching him perform Broadway hits with slightly altered— and usually raunchier  —  lyrics.

Raymond suspected that this was for copyright reasons; he also suspected that _On the Steps of the Phallus_ would not be enough to dissuade Sondheim’s lawyers.

In Tuesday’s class, they were down to four attendees in total. Titus showed up half an hour late and redhead-free. He proceeded to spend ninety minutes complaining about the ungratefulness of volunteer help these days, and when Raymond asked which Shakespearean monologue might be suitable for a romantic occasion, Titus had turned wild eyes on him and wailed, “Don’t you know they don’t teach Shakespeare in Mississippi?”

He'd mispronounced "Shakespeare", too. At this point, Raymond was beginning to doubt that Titus had had any classical dramatic training whatsoever.

On Wednesday, three students showed up to find Titus already there, napping in the corner under a gold lamé cloak. When Raymond shook him by the shoulder, he opened one bleary eye and said: “I planned a video day! It’s in the schedule.”

The video in question turned out to be an hour-long montage of Titus’ performing history, punctuated with clips of him screaming _Pinoooooot noir!_ at the camera.

On Thursday, Raymond was the only student in attendance. Titus strolled in thirteen minutes late, collapsed onto an old chaise longue that Raymond was fairly certain had come from the sidewalk, and waved a dismissive hand at Raymond, who steeled himself.

“No.”

Titus sat up. “What?”

“I said no. I paid good money to learn how to perform, and you haven’t taught me anything yet. My Valentine’s Day date with my husband is this Saturday, and I need to learn how to perform a monologue by then, or he’ll make snide comments about it to our dog for the next six months.”

Titus collapsed back down onto the chaise longue. “But teaching is hard! And I already walked all the way here.”

Raymond took out the fifteen romantic monologues he'd printed on the precinct printer the previous day. "I don't want you to teach me. It's become clear that you have no interest in teaching and no actual lesson plans. But you do have to sit up and listen to me rehearse." Titus groaned. "Or I'll arrest you for false representation and take you back to my precinct, and I promise that will take longer than two hours." Titus groaned again, more loudly. Raymond cleared his throat.

" _O hateful hands, to tear such loving words._  
_Injurious wasps, to feed on such sweet honey_  
_And kill the bees that yield it_  —"

"Stop!" Titus was holding his hands up beseechingly. Raymond frowned. "It's terrible! I mean, you're terrible!" He stood up. "Oh, all right. As Beyoncé is my witness, I will teach you how to act."

Raymond frowned, not sure if he could count this as a success or not. “ _Can_ you teach?”

“Girl, can a goose fly?” Raymond frowned, not sure what that had to do with anything, and Titus continued. “I really don’t know! They don’t teach a lot in Mississippi schools.”

* * *

Titus' idea of actual teaching turned out to largely consist of fashion advice, which Raymond had no intention of following; complaints about somebody named Mikey Politano, who was going out with another man for Valentine's Day but would allegedly give anything to be back in Titus' arms; and two small but vital actual suggestions:

"Change your intonation sometimes!" And: "This is horrible! Just let me do it."

And so, Raymond had agreed to let Titus give a romantic monologue on his behalf. Perhaps it wasn't the best-advised idea he had ever given in to; perhaps Gina and Jake and Terry would all have told him that he was being ridiculous and that Kevin would love whatever monotone monologue he might deliver; perhaps he shouldn't be placing his trust in an acting coach who had no earthly idea what "iambic pentameter" was. But it was seven-twenty on the evening of Valentine's Day, he and Kevin were pulling up to the restaurant they'd booked several months earlier, and although the pit in his stomach had been screaming at him for his cowardice for the past two days, he was almost sure it was too late to change the plan now.

Over dinner, Raymond was openly on edge, barely eating the rare steak that had been placed in front of him. He kept glancing around for Titus, who had promised in no uncertain terms to be there in time for the dessert course (a cheese plate, as always).

Finally, the cheese plate appeared— and carrying it, winking openly at Raymond and wearing a toga clearly borrowed from the Brooklyn Historical Society, was Titus. Placing the cheese platter in the centre of the table, Titus took a step back, pulled out a glitzy pink microphone that looked like it might be for decorative purposes only, and began to declaim the monologue that Raymond had ultimately selected. "What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true?"

Titus was not, Raymond realised for the first time, a particularly bad actor, though he was over-enunciating and had just broken a glass by sweeping his arm dramatically across the table. But his roiling stomach was still furious with him, and across the table, there was a vague look of disappointment in Kevin's face.

Raymond had, objectively, faced down much worse foes than Kevin's disappointment— gang members, actual murderers, an overwrought Santiago —but at the present moment, he couldn't quite remember anything nearly as intimidating. He stood up. "Hold on." Titus stopped, mid-flourish. "No. This isn't right." Titus, Kevin and most of the surrounding tables were staring at him as he took Titus' script and microphone from his hands (Titus let out a bereft whimper, sounding like Cheddar deprived of his favourite hamburger toy).

Raymond took a deep breath, and began:

" _What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true?_  
_Stand I condemn’d for pride and scorn so much?_  
_Contempt, farewell. And maiden pride, adieu._  
_No glory lives behind the back of such._  
_And, Kevin, love on; I will requite thee,_  
_Taming my wild heart to thy loving hand:_  
_If thou dost love, my kindness shall incite thee_  
_To bind our loves up in a holy band;_  
_For others say thou dost deserve, and I_  
_Believe it better than reportingly._ "

Well. That was it. He was vaguely aware that his intonation had been flat, that he hadn't moved or gesticulated even once, and that his voice had gone from its usual stentorian authority to barely above a whisper.

He looked up from the script, which he'd been largely speaking into, to see Kevin smiling.

It had all been worth it, then.


End file.
